


Finding Footing

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action, Canon Compliant, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 08:59:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7041667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos returns to Paris to recover, and Constance is left to work out how to keep him safe and happy and in bed and not wandering around half naked. </p><p>Vague s3 spoilers, though not if you've seen the first episode, nothing specific, some character stuff</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thimblerig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/gifts).



> For Thimblerig, who wanted Porthos and Treville working together with their hive-mind. I added in Constance because this is the plot I thought of, and because she's awesome. The Treville hive mind bit is in chapter two, but it is there! Yay.

When Porthos is brought back to Paris with a bloody hole in his shoulder-plate, grey with pain, complaining about not being allowed to stay at the front, Constance knows she’s about to have a fight on her hands. It’s been two years, so she’s at least used to running a garrison by now, and isn’t going to have to juggle that stress with this. She gets Porthos tucked into a bed, takes his boots and clothes so he doesn’t try to ride away or something, feeds him, and then goes to the palace. 

 

When Porthos wakes, and comes in search of clothes and food, Constance has Treville with her. They’re both sat in the mess, looking over some paperwork. Porthos comes lumbering in wearing his small-clothes, bandaged shoulder and arm held against his side, eyes glassy with tiredness and maybe fever, and scowls at her. 

 

“Hello, Porthos,” Treville says, getting up out of his chair. 

 

He sounds amused, but also joyfully glad to see Porthos alive and mostly well. He embraces Porthos warmly, and then guides him to sit, sliding a plate of meat and bread over to him. A cup of wine follows. Constance watches. 

 

“You took me trousers,” Porthos grumbles, around a mouthful of food. 

 

“Yes I did,” Constance says. “I see it hasn’t stopped you ignoring doctor’s orders and getting out of bed.”

 

“I’m fine,” Porthos says. 

 

“You were shot, and then you decided a couple of days as a Spanish prisoner were a good idea, and then you went and got a fever,” Constance says. “d’Artagnan wrote to me. I know the details.”

 

“Oh,” Porthos says. “Still, I’m almost fine. Fine enough not to have my trousers stole.”

 

“They were terrible anyway,” Constance says. “I’ll run you up a few new pairs, the other two as well. You can have them when you’re more than ‘almost’ well.”

 

“What did you do with my old ones? I like my old ones, they were soft!” Porthos says, head coming up. 

 

“I burnt them,” Constance tells him cheerfully. 

 

She hasn’t. They’re with his boots. He’s right- they’re soft. She’s pretty sure he’ll be wanting comforting clothes before he gets well enough to return to the front. She’s seen him away from the others before, he misses them. She’ll endeavour to be the family he needs, but Porthos, while being incredibly kind to her and always very friendly, is probably the one she knows least well. Athos she’s known for years, Aramis is easy to get to know as he’s always flirting and has no trouble imposing his company on you, and d’Artagnan she married. Porthos, though, has always held back with her, just a little. 

 

“You don’t need trousers,” Treville says. “Stop making a fuss and eat this, so you can go back to bed. You’re the colour of Old Serge’s porridge.”

 

“Where is Serge?” Porthos asks, looking around. 

 

“I have no idea,” Constance says. “There are only eight cadets at the moment, the army came through and recruited the rest. There aren’t many of us to cook for.”

 

“Oh,” Porthos says. 

 

He eats quietly, and Treville and Constance watch him. Then they exchange a look. Treville nods. 

 

“Right,” Constance says, getting to her feet. “Back to bed. If you’re good, and do as you’re told, you can help us try and make sense of this intelligence. It’s from Bigaud, whose letters always edge on the incomprehensible.”

 

Porthos gets back to his feet, and sways. Treville is there, steadying him. Porthos accepts the help with more grace than Constance expects. She gathers up the papers that cover their table, and follows the other two. She runs into Serge, out in the courtyard, and tells him Porthos asked after him. 

 

“I’ll make him something warm and sweet,” Serge says. “Tell him I’ll turn it into a habit, if he does as will make him well again this time, and doesn’t go wandering about Paris getting himself a fever.”

 

“He’s already had a fever this time,” Constance says, sighing. 

 

“They always have hit the lad hard. He’ll recover, though, if he puts himself in your capable hands, madam. Tell him: something warm and sweet. Honey cake, tonight. Pastries, tomorrow.”

 

“I’ll tell him. Thank you, Serge.”

 

“Madam,” Serge says, going on his way with a little bow. 

 

Porthos is still awake, when she gets to his rooms. Treville’s laughing. Constance sets the things in her arms down, and drags a chair across to join them. 

 

“Porthos was just telling me how Athos is doing,” Treville says. 

 

“And that’s amusing?” Constance asks. 

 

“Athos has such skill at grumbling,” Treville says. “He comes up with some choice words that sum up the situation of red tape and badly behaved men quite nicely.”

 

“Treville also enjoys Athos discovering all the little ways he used to annoy the Minister without a thought, and just why it is they annoyed the Minister,” Porthos says. 

 

“They’re well, though? Both of them?” Constance asks. 

 

“d’Artagnan’s very well,” Porthos assures, reaching out to take her hand. “He swore me to kiss you for him, but I thought you’d prefer I just tell you that.”

 

“Thanks,” Constance says. “Did he kiss you? To pass along?”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, then frowns. “Think he actually, um, used you as an excuse. I think he was just relieved, when my fever broke and I woke up. Then he was embarrassed and said it was for me to pass on to you. Athos just kissed me. The man has no shame.”

 

“Your fevers are terrifying,” Treville says. “Your dreams seem to tear you to pieces. I remember sitting through your delirium. When you woke, I’m pretty sure I kissed you.”

 

“You did, I remember it,” Porthos says, grinning. “d’Artagnan was a bit grumpy. Before my fever. He was pissed at Athos for rescuing me. Athos is taking to captaincy and he’s good at it, but he’s a little reckless sometimes, forgets his responsibility is to a regiment, now, not just me.

 

“d’Artagnan didn’t want to rescue you?” Constance asks. 

 

“Oh, no, he did. Just, he’d have preferred Athos make a plan, not just… Athos stormed a fort. More or less. Used some tunnels, blew a lot of stuff up. One man army of ire. I think it’ll probably get spread around the Spanish army, now. Don’t take Porthos, or Athos might blow you up.”

 

“He always was reckless,” Treville says. “You have whip marks, on your back, Porthos.”

 

“Six lashes,” Porthos agrees. “They healed fine, they wanted information not skin. d’Artagnan backed ‘im up, even though he didn’t agree. Got us out. He was angry with Athos, because Athos risked d’Artagnan needlessly, and d’Artagnan isn’t up for that. Says he’s coming home to Constance, and if Athos thinks that isn’t important, d’Artagnan will stick his sword somewhere unpleasant.”

 

Porthos grins again, but he’s tired, now. His eyes drift close, then snap open. Treville tells him to sleep, and promises to save work for him. Porthos grunts. Constance remembers to pass on Serge’s promise, and Porthos smiles at that, squeezing her hand. 

 

Constance finds herself watching over him, while he’s sleeping. She takes her mending in, and his trousers. She works through a pile of clothes that she’s picking apart to remake for some of the refugees flooding into Saint Antoine, and then gets started on making Porthos new trousers. She puts that aside, after a while. There’s a dress among the clothes to be unpicked, given to her by Anne. It’s ruined, muddy and torn, but the fabric’s good and Constance has cleaned it. It’s nice fabric- bright-coloured, with three colours and a pattern. She unpicks it and cuts out a square, to make Porthos one of the bandanas she’s seen him wearing. 

 

To her surprise, when Porthos wakes it’s with an offer to help her with the mending, rather than with eagerness for the report Treville left for him. He does read over the report with a cursory gaze, and translates Bigaud’s handwriting and rambling with ease. He’s much more interested in the sewing, though. She gives him things to unpick, and then tries him out on a small project. His stitching is neat and quick, his hands deft. 

 

“I always say Aramis should have been a seamstress,” Porthos says, noticing her watching. “What with how good his stitches are, in our skin. I learnt this a long time ago, though. You do everything for yourself, in the Court, including making clothes. I wanted to help people, too.”

 

The last is said quietly, as if it’s something Porthos is ashamed of. 

 

“That’s what we’re doing,” Constance says, keeping her voice practical where she wants to be gentle. “These are going to be taken to the refugees. I gather material from many sources, most of this came from the queen, from the lower gentlewomen of the court who usually give their clothes to the poor of Paris, but now do not want to wander in the city. Her majesty has started collecting. The garrison has become a place where we try to make the plight of the poor easier. Where we can, we give food. We try to keep some order on the streets. We try to clothe people.”

 

Porthos nods, keeping his head down over his work. Constance respects his need for privacy, and focuses on her own stitching. She starts to hum to herself, one of the rowdy songs from the last bar she dragged Jean from sticking in her head. She turns her thoughts to Jean, with the humming. Their newest recruit, a little too old to be a cadet, he’s there because his father doesn’t want him on the front, four sons already dead. It’s a family with enough money to petition the king, enough money to keep the boy in Paris, safe. Constance thinks he’d be happier on the front. Maybe not safe from musket-fire and swords, but safe from falling into the wine bottle to try and drown his guilt and shame and sorrow. 

 

She finishes the bandana, and holds it up for Porthos’ inspection. He smiles at the colour, and fingers the fabric, and then passes it back. 

 

“It’s for you,” Constance says. 

 

Porthos’ mouth drops open a little and he stares at her. Then he wraps the fabric around his bruised, scarred knuckles, and brings it to his cheek, dark skin turning pink around the ears and cheeks. He looks like a child. He shakes himself a little, and then wraps his hair, tying it carefully, turning to face her again, a shy little smile on his face. 

 

“How’d I look?” Porthos asks. 

 

“Lovely,” Constance says. 

 

“Can I make anything for you? In return?”

 

“Oh, no, no. I just thought of you when I saw the colours, thought you’d like it.”

 

“Well thank you, I do. Very much.”

 

They sew in silence, over the next few days, falling into a pattern. Constance finds that the easiest way to keep Porthos in bed is to keep him company and give him something to occupy his mind and hands. Conversation, reports, sewing. Constance calls the cadets in, too, and sorts their little grievances and problems, letting Porthos butt in with suggestions, stories, laughter or commiseration. 

 

Constance still has a garrison to run, so she can’t spend every hour in Porthos’ room. She uses Treville, making him sit in there instead while she runs after Jean, while she pays bills, goes to stock up, to deliver clothes and supplies, to visit the queen. She gets back from the market, a few days into Porthos’ stay, and finds him sat in the yard cleaning weapons, half the armoury spread around him, bellowing instruction to Jean and Michel, who are sparring. 

 

“Where is the minister?” Constance asks, jumping down from the cart. “You two, stop poking each other with swords and get this lot unloaded.”

 

“He got called back to the palace,” Porthos says. 

 

“So you thought you’d come out here?” Constance asks, sitting beside him and plucking a cloth up, choosing a pistol to take to pieces. 

 

“Nah. We came out before he left. I’m much better, really. I’ve had lots of rest, and that’s what I needed really. Healing fine.”

 

“I’ll take a look, but later. For now, I’m happy with you being out here as long as you aren’t in pain,” Constance says. “This needs doing.”

 

Jean and Michel come back out, once they’re done with the cart, with two other cadets. They beg Porthos to spar with them. He agrees to shout at them for a bit, and does so. He’s good, Constance realises. He’s not just correcting them, he’s watching carefully for their style, their strengths, their weaknesses. 

 

“Would you…” she begins to ask, when Serge brings them lunch and they put everything aside for food. Then she stops, and fills her mouth so the question won’t sneak out. 

 

“Would I what?” Porthos asks. 

 

“Teach me,” Constance says, around the food. Damn it. 

 

“Sure. I thought d’Artagnan already gave you lessons?” Porthos says. 

 

“I don’t mean teach me. I mean, the way you just did for the cadets.”

 

“Yeah, alright. You ever spar with them?”

 

“Madam of the garrison? Madam d’Artagnan? Madam, Porthos. I’m a woman. Of course I don’t spar with them.”

 

“Okay. Anyone you do spar with?” Porthos asks. “Any other women who want to learn? I can do that.”

 

Constance opens her mouth, then shuts it. That evening, she goes knocking on a few doors, and the next day she turns up with Marie Grenier, Anne Dubé, and Louise Bigaud. Porthos nods. 

 

That becomes part of their routine. Porthos ropes Treville in, as well, so they have two instructors. Charlotte Cloutier joins them, and then Martine Houle. Martine already knows how to fight, and Constance can finally actually practise. Porthos corrects several of what are apparently bad habits, but lets her settle into several others that Treville says are also bad habits. 

 

“They’re habits, not bad ones. It works, for her. She’s not got as much muscle in her arms as her opponent’s going to have, ‘specially if he’s a soldier. She’s not a soldier, minister. Look at the way she uses it, next time,” Porthos says. 

 

Treville nods, next time he watches her fight, and Constance feels a fierce pride. For herself, the way she fights, the way she offsets her weaknesses. Some are consciously done, some not so much, but the two men’s approval secures her confidence.

 

It’s a week before Constance is convinced that Porthos is ready to be up and around without having to be supervised and sent back to bed and told to take it easy. He starts to spar with the recruits, and Constance feels a pang, that she can’t do it herself. They go so easy on him. That evening, during their lesson, Porthos makes her beam by examining the sword he’s polishing while they fight, and then getting to his feet and holding it out in challenge. 

 

She doesn’t go easy on him. He doesn’t go easy on her, either. He’s teaching, and testing, and challenging her, but he’s also fighting. It’s good. The physical exertion, the mental calculations, the instinct it clicks into. She’s sweaty and breathless when they stop, but so happy. Happier than she’s been since d’Artagnan’s been gone. She sighs, remembering him, and sits in the grass. They’re to the North of Paris, where it’s quiet and there are fields. Martine comes and sits with her. 

 

“You miss him,” she says. 

 

“Yes,” Constance agrees. “Do you miss Houle?”

 

“Yes. I’m used to it, though. Been married to him for nearly twenty years. This is the first time, for you, isn’t it?”

 

“The first war,” Constance says. 

 

“I’m glad you started this. Will we be able to continue, when Porthos returns to the front?” Martine asks. 

 

“I think we will, you know. As long as we keep drawing little attention, and I don’t forget myself and correct my cadets.”

 

Martine laughs. 

 

“You don’t know how many times I’d be at the garrison with Houle and want to tell all those big musketeers that their grip was wrong. Do you know how many bad habits Aramis had? How lazily Athos fought when sparring? How many times Bigaud’s stance would be so bad he’d topple with a good push?”

 

“And me?” Porthos asks, looming over them, smile splitting his face. He throws himself down beside them, sprawling. “What about me? What were my habits?”

 

“You used to throw your sword. Porthos, if you throw your sword at someone, you are effectively simply disarming yourself and giving your opponent a blade,” Martine says. 

 

“Ah, but not if they’re dead. I’m deadly accurate, me.”

 

“Yes. Very useful in battle, with more than one person,” Martine says. 

 

Porthos laughs, and tells her a story about saving Aramis’ life with that move. Constance and Martine exchange a look over his head, one that is in perfect agreement. About husbands, stubborn musketeers, and Porthos idiotic throwing of his weapons. Porthos talks on, oblivious. 

 

The next day, Porthos goes with Constance to the market. When they’re sat at breakfast, he reaches over and takes her hand. She knows what’s coming. When he says he needs to return to the front, though, she’s surprised at the violence of the emotion that sweeps through her. Anger at the war, at the soldiers, at everyone, and sadness that he’s going. 

 

“I like you, Porthos,” is all she says, patting his cheek. “Come back in one piece.”

 

Porthos leaves, that afternoon, to see Treville. Constance stands out in the yard, watching Brujon, their newest cadet, dragging Jean back, drunk. Watching Alix and Michel practicing hand to hand. She goes to meet two women who come begging for aid feeding a school ful of children, and does what she can. She sews. She sits in the kitchen with Serge going over what stocks they have and what they need and what would be good to have. 

 

“I may be in Paris a bit longer,” Porthos says, making them both jump, leaning in the doorway. “You got anything good to eat, Serge?”

 

Serge tosses Porthos two apples, and Porthos sits on the bench set against the wall to eat them, telling Constance between bites of the mission Treville wants his aid on. Constance listens, demands to hear their plan, too, and then decides that she’s going with them. She nods and lets Porthos go, planning her strategy to make them agree to her terms. 


	2. Chapter 2

Porthos has his back against the barn wall, two pistols, one in each hand, a knife tucked into his hand against the butt of one of the firearms. He’s grinning at Constance. Treville comes back around the side and holds up eight fingers. Porthos scoffs and runs off, keeping low. Treville leans against the side of the barn, counting his fingers down, head on one side listening to the sounds of fighting behind him. When he gets to three, Porthos staggers backwards into their sight and laughs, three men following him. 

 

Constance jumps forwards, and Treville straightens. One each, Porthos shouts, still flat on his back laughing. Constance dispatches hers with more ease than she expected. The practise with Porthos and Martine has paid off. She turns and watches Treville skewer his, and then they both watch Porthos play with the last. 

 

“Come on, Porthos,” Treville says, and Porthos shrugs. 

 

His man’s on top of him, pinning him to the ground. Porthos twists, and sinks a knife into the man’s thigh, jerking back to avoid the spurt of thick blood. 

 

“Got the right place,” Porthos says, getting up. “Aramis showed me it. There’s a big vein, in the leg there. Perfect for a good jab.”

 

He reaches for Constance to show her, then pulls back, flushing. Constance tugs his hand impatiently and he touches her thigh. She uses her fingers to find the place, herself, then nods. She stows her sword and turns to survey the damage Porthos has done, counting the bodies. 

 

“Eight,” she reports. “All accounted for.”

 

“This is their outpost. Shouldn’t know we’re coming, now,” Treville says. 

 

They’re after the bandits who’ve been sat out in these woods for the past month, like a fat toad, growing fat off the war, looting the poorest parts of Paris. They’ve grown more daring, recently, and have spread further into the city, drawing attention as they take from richer folk. Finally they went far enough to steal from a noble, and here they are. Here Porthos is, officially. Officially, both Minister Treville and Madam d’Artagnan are tucked up safely at home. 

 

They find cover at the top of a rise. They can make out the camp from the movement, and Porthos points out the guards, spotting them by their stillness. A forest, he whispers to Constance, is never still. It breathes. Look for the breath of it, then find the places the movement is wrong. Constance has a go at looking for the breath of it, but she just sees trees. She suddenly feels tired, afraid, and very out of place.

 

“I can’t do this,” she whispers. “I can’t. I’m not a soldier, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

 

“Nor does anyone,” Treville says. “We all just fight.”

 

“We won’t ask too much of you,” Porthos assures. “The Minister and I will take out the guards and lookouts, and then I think we’ll ask you to scream.”

 

“Draw some away from the camp. Thin them out,” Treville says. “Then, like 1625?”

 

Porthos grunts, and claps Constance on the shoulder. She realises he’s telling her to stay put, when he and Treville both move away, going opposite directions. She watches their progress through the trees, losing them then finding them again. She knows where to look, where the guards are. They move at the same pace, and mirror one another almost exactly. Silent, deadly, they both vanish from view. 

 

They return together, from behind her. Porthos has blood in his beard, and Treville has a hand over a bloody arm. Porthos crouches in front of him and pulls his hand away, pushing and prodding until he’s satisfied, then he ties a dirty cloth around the arm and pats Treville’s shoulder. Treville rolls his eyes. 

 

“That’ll infect,” Constance says. 

 

“It’s clean enough for the moment,” Porthos says. 

 

“It’s all he’s got,” Treville adds. 

 

“They’ll have bandages in the camp,” Porthos says. “Won’t be long.”

 

Constance looks closer at the fabric, and recognises Porthos’ bandana. The grime is from Porthos’ pocket, she thinks. She nods. Porthos grins, and raises his eyebrows, and Treville nods, and nudges her. Right. She’s screaming. She thinks of the time d’Artagnan came upon a spider unexpectedly when he was naked and half asleep, remembers the sound, and imitates it. She screams three times, then Treville and Porthos exchange a look, a gesture, and she’s being tugged away by Treville. 

 

They run, low to the ground, making for new cover. They’re higher than their previous position, and have a good view of two bandits who come through the trees, grumbling to each other. Porthos moves around behind them, a knife in hand. He slits the first throat, and knocks the second out, without a sound, then melts back into the trees. He doesn’t look Treville’s way, but Treville nods as if something’s been communicated. 

 

Another man comes through the trees, and Treville slips down, knife finding the man’s soft belly, tugging upwards, hand over his mouth. Treville looks her way, then glances at the trees, then melts away. Constance waits, wondering what’s next. She wishes she could help more. She’s helped Treville with strategy, and she’s thought through battles with him, but actually being here is so different. She feels so out of her depth. 

 

Porthos crawls up, flopping down at her side, then. He’s got a sack, and he presses it to her, finger to his lips. He moves so he’s very close, so his lips are right by her ear. For a moment she thinks she’s going to get that kiss, but then he’s whispering, soft and so quiet it’s barely audible but still somehow clear as a bell to her. 

 

“Get close to the fire, get that in there, then run. It’ll explode. Jump forwards, let the blast carry you. Try not to tense. You should be fine. If not, I’ll never tell d’Artagnan this was my doing.”

 

Constance covers her mouth to stop her laughter. Porthos gives her a quick grin. There’s blood in his teeth. 

 

“How do I get close?” Constance wonders.

 

Porthos is gone, though. Constance realises he’s left that bit up to her. She sighs, but creeps closer to the camp. Her heart’s beating as hard as it ever has, and she’s sure her breathing is audible for miles around. She keeps stepping on sticks. She comes across no one, but as she gets closer, she thinks she senses movement around her. Porthos melts out of the trees, suddenly, and a man lies dead. Constance starts back. Porthos leaves again. 

 

They’re there, she realises. Treville and Porthos, in the trees with her, silent and invisible. She feels suddenly protected. She knows she’s not safe, but her heart settles and her mind clears. There’s just a thin line of trees between her and the camp, now. It’s large, there are so many men, tents, weapons lying around, food, the smell of meat over the fire, the sound of rowdy laughter. 

 

Constance stops, lowering herself closer to the ground, crouched. She assesses, looking for a central fire. There are three small fires, and then a larger one. The three seem to be for cooking. She decides on the larger one. There are lots of men between her and it. She identifies cover, four locations, and chooses her route. Then she waits, hoping for a distraction. There’s a roar from the other side of the camp, and then Porthos’ belly laugh. 

 

“I’m here from the king!” Porthos bellows. 

 

The men are on their feet, weapons in hand, and then there’s shouts and screams and Porthos laughing. Constance ducks and darts for her second cover, waiting there a moment, watching Porthos leap and cut and dart back, drawing the men away, drawing attention. Treville, Constance notices, is lingering on the edges, picking men off. Porthos will draw them, separate them, gesture, roar or bellow, and Treville will move to a new position, and take out the man separated off. 

 

Constance takes a moment of distraction to move to her next position. She’s seen, this time, but her blade finds the man’s thigh, right where Porthos showed her. She knows it’s a small target, but the man is close and she’s working on instinct. She moves again. Someone’s there, waiting, but she’s ready- she chooses her knife, this time, placed in her hand by Treville earlier in the evening. It finds the man’s belly, and she yanks upwards, spilling his guts. She retches, just managing to hold her own stomach in place, and moves at once. 

 

Porthos is on his knee, head bowed, fighting desperately. She wants to give him relief, but she has her part to play. Treville comes, anyway, and Porthos struggles up, back to back with Treville. He glances her way, and he and Treville back up as one. The bandits relax a little, the men swarming after Porthos and Treville. Treville shouts something, and they’re followed with more enthusiasm. 

 

Treville’s hand finds Porthos, and taps, and then the two are breaking away, running opposite directions, feet hitting the ground hard, splitting their attackers into two groups to give chase. Constance finds her last bit of cover, rises up and throws the sack. She runs, too, in the other direction, as fast as she can. She’s seen, finally, and she feels men on her back, shouting. She runs. She ploughs her way through two men, then hears something. A silence, a whoosh. She jumps, flinging herself forwards. 

 

It’s less a noise, than a sudden enveloping of fire and sounds and terror. She’s thrown to the ground. She hits with a thud and lies, senseless, There’s a second explosion, and she covers her head, ears ringing. The next moment she’s grabbed, and she nearly sinks her knife into Porthos’ knee, recognising him just in time. He’s saying something, but she can just see his lips moving, there’s no audio in the world anymore. He pulls, and she’s running again, stumbling at his side. 

 

They find Treville on the other side of the camp to where they begun, and Constance watches as Treville and Porthos have a wordless discussion, Treville’s hand resting on Porthos’ shoulder. Porthos shrugs, then nods, and they make their way to cover, high ground again. Constance sits, staring ahead, shocked and tired and deaf. She wonders if it’s forever, now, this strange silence. 

 

Porthos touches her arm, and Treville makes her drink water. Porthos pulls a handful of clean bandages out of his pocket and waits for Treville to strip to the waist. Constance watches, making out the hissed complaints from Treville even in the silence. Her ears are ringing, and it takes her a moment to realise sound is beginning to filter back in. Treville notices something, and touches Porthos’ elbow. Porthos finishes his bandaging and turns to her. 

 

“Th… r,” he says. 

 

_ There you are _ , Constance translates. She nods. Porthos makes her drink some more water, then his big hand takes her chin, turning her head this way and that, looking at her eyes. He seems satisfied with whatever he finds. He gets to his feet, drawing his sword, then tilts his head Treville’s direction. Treville gets up, too. They make their way back to the camp. Constance stays where she is, safe, and watches them. 

 

They tie up the men, Porthos stooping now and then to administer first aid. They work from either side of the camp, blades quick where they meet resistance, communicating across the distance without a word. Constance has seen Porthos work with the other three, but not with Treville. The four Inseperables work wordlessly, seamlessly, knowing one another inside out. With Treville it’s different. Less knowledge of one another, more instinct. It’s eerie, how easily they read each other, how they seem to read each other’s minds, even. 

 

Once the men are roped together in two long lines, Constance goes to join them and they walk back to where they left the horses. Porthos ties a line of men to his and Treville’s saddles, then they mount and ride back to Paris, silent and tired but victorious. 

 

Once they reach the city, Treville hands over his prisoners and Porthos goes on alone, leaving the other two to make their way back to their respective places. Constance finds the cadets eating. She slips through to change, and then joins them, making sure they have what they need, that Serge is happy, that the garrison is still standing and running. Then she eats. She suddenly understands d’Artagnan’s appetite a little better, and finds herself stifling laughter. 

 

Porthos comes to find her, later, and they walk to the palace together. She takes his arm and lets him escort her. She feels close to him. They haven’t really talked a lot, in his time here, but somehow she still feels as if she knows him better. She’d always pegged Athos as the quiet one, but she realises that Porthos, too, in his way, is more quiet than talk. He tells stories and allows his heart to show and doesn’t try to keep things inside, but he’s still quiet with all of that. 

 

“It’s been good, having you here,” Constance says, as they’re let into the Louvre and head towards Treville’s quarters. 

 

“Hasn’t been terrible,” Porthos agrees, squeezing her arm. “I’ve got plenty to tell d’Artagnan. He’ll be proud. I’ll leave out the bit where I nearly got you blown up, eh?”

 

Constance is laughing when they’re shown into Treville’s sitting room. He stands to welcome them, and Porthos makes a noise, which Treville translates as ‘wine’ and passes Porthos a large cup of it. Porthos takes a seat, sprawling across the chair. He looks suddenly more like a soldier. In these opulent rooms instead of the garrison, against Treville’s neat clothes and formality, Constance’s dress and carefully done hair, he looks like the soldier that he is. Constance feels like a woman, suddenly, small and fragile and useless. 

 

“That was a pretty good bit of fighting, earlier, Constance,” Porthos says. “I think honorary musketeer is wrong. Just musketeer’ll do in the future.”

 

“Can’t have women in the musketeers,” Treville says, grinning. “What an outrage. It just is not done. The work of the devil. Tracts will be written.”

 

“You know,” Constance says, thoughtfully, mind spinning away from what she’s been taught of femininity to what she’s learnt of it. “Milady always worked in the shadows, but her best weapon was her sex. No one thought twice of a woman, and everyone underestimated her. I think I can work with being underestimated.”

 

“You don’t need to, though,” Porthos grumbles. “Should get a commission for that work today.”

 

“I cannot commission a woman into any regiment,” Treville says, slowly. “But I think you need not be underestimated. You can run the garrison more openly, I think. There’s a war on. Women do as they must to keep the home fires lit and the place running. It is allowable, in such times. We’re taking a turn deeper, right now. Deeper into war. Paris is becoming home to refugees, hunger, fear. The red guard are becoming a nuisance. I think having a garrison run by someone strong and capable, openly so, is not a bad thing just now.”

 

“I can do that,” Constance says, thinking of another woman. “Her majesty never appears weak, even as she’s kind and good to the people.”

 

“Still think we should get the king to commission you,” Porthos says, leaning forward and waggling his cup until Treville fills it for him. “Could use you, at the front.”

 

“I think I’d rather stay in Paris,” Constance says. “The work here is just as vital. We’ve got our own battles to fight, as you’ve seen.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “I’ll tell d’Art about you becoming a musketeer, though. Treville can commission you, Athos will accept you into the regiment. Mightn’t be entirely official, but official enough. Captain d’Artagnan, who runs the garrison. Athos’ll be glad of that, when he comes back. He hates that stuff.”

 

“Thanks a bunch, Porthos. I get the boring stuff,” Constance says, laughing. 

 

“Athos finds it boring. You don’t,” Porthos says, gravely, a little tipsy Constance thinks. “You’re good at it.”

 

Constance changes the subject, begging Porthos for more stories about her husband. Porthos seems to have an endless supply of them, and is willing to share. When he’s left Paris, she’s left with the warmth of his friendship, of his stories, and the renewed determination to keep the garrison strong and a place the people of Paris can look to in times of need. She’s also left with a closer ally-ship with Treville.  


End file.
